Books Issue: The Obama Portraits

The remarkable story behind the official portraits by American artists Kehinde Wiley and Amy Sherald.

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As a Canadian distanced from the ferment of American politics, I wasn’t enthralled when the official portraits of Barack and Michelle Obama were unveiled in 2018. I noted the flurry of media attention and the blockbuster attendance at the National Portrait Gallery with mild interest before moving on to other news. But that all changed last January after I saw the portraits firsthand during a visit to Washington, D.C.

So I opened the The Obama Portraits, published recently by Princeton University Press, with anticipation. The book features more than 70 photographs, along with transcripts of speeches from the unveiling and essays by Kim Sajet, the gallery’s director, Richard J. Powell, an art historian at Duke University in North Carolina, and the curators who steered the commissions, Taína Caragol and Dorothy Moss.

The authors do much to illuminate the American public’s fascination with these portraits, but for Canadians, who may not appreciate the powerful symbolism of their location, it’s helpful to begin with Washington.

Even before the first stones were laid in 1790, the capital was envisioned as a grand neoclassical city. Major avenues radiate like sunrays to its epicentre: the White House. The area throngs with tourists and school children waving American flags – many also dressed from head to toe in red, white and blue. The National Portrait Gallery is located in the midst of this patriotic melee, right between the White House and the Capitol, the legislative seat of the U.S. government.

At the display of American presidents, visitors are greeted by an imposing portrait of George Washington, followed by wall upon wall of magisterial portraits showing aging white men bathed in dramatic lighting, set against backdrops of the Capitol, classical columns or American flags. With a few notable exceptions, such as Elaine de Kooning’s portrait of John F. Kennedy, most are dull and formulaic grand-style oil paintings.

After a lengthy walk – visitors can access more than 800 presidential portraits if touchscreens are included – I reached the 44th president, the lone African American. Even two years after its unveiling, the portrait was still protected by stanchions. A group of visitors taking selfies at first obscured my view of all but the glowing green foliage in the painting’s background. I checked if it was backlit, but, no, pure chromatic hues account for its eerie radiance. 

In that moment, I began to understand the huge public response to the portrait and was keen to learn more.

The Obama Portraits, despite its relative brevity, reveals behind-the-scenes stories with depth and insight, drawing attention to the subtle symbolism chosen by the artists and their famous sitters, information that elicits repeated aha moments.

Michelle’s portrait by Baltimore-based Amy Sherald is imbued with informal nobility: the sky-blue background and triangular composition conveys the effect of a secular Madonna. 

It’s harder to interpret the boldly patterned summer dress or grisaille features. The dress pattern, it turns out, recalls references to African American quilts as well as maps of the Underground Railroad that helped slaves escape to freedom. Michelle’s monochromatic skin tone was inspired by dignified photographic portraits of African Americans assembled for an exhibit organized by American sociologist W.E.B. Du Bois for the 1900 Paris Exposition. 

Similarly, each detail of Brooklyn-based Kehinde Wiley’s portrait of Barack matters. The inlaid-wood revival armchair in which he sits, as well as the forward lean of his body, are reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln’s portrait. This reference takes on added significance when we learn the unveiling was deliberately held on Lincoln’s birthday. Barack has often said that Lincoln’s abolition of slavery made his presidency possible.

The remarkable similarities between Wiley and Sherald are striking: both are firmly rooted in contemporary art and both have addressed historic injustices, including the near absence of Black portraits in art museums. 

Wiley began his illustrious career by painting strangers he spotted on Harlem’s streets. He painted these men in army fatigues, baseball hats and hoodies, but posed them like heroes from art history, including the neoclassical equestrian portrait by Jacques-Louis David, Napoleon Leading the Army Over the Alps.

This tongue-in-cheek approach changed when Wiley encountered a man embodying actual power. His portrait of Obama is approachable and conveys a modern masculinity.

Sherald too has favoured ordinary subjects, approaching women in neighbourhood parks and imbuing them with a timeless, archetypal quality. Like Michelle, she wants to give girls of colour access to what neither artist nor model had when they were young: museum portraits of women who look like them. Their efforts are rewarded daily by countless girls and women who flock to the gallery, including two-year-old Parker Curry, whose look of amazement at seeing Michelle’s portrait went viral.

It’s no wonder these portraits touch a nerve for so many. In a polarized political climate where racism still festers in myriad ways, the images offer a vision of what's possible. As permanent features in a storied museum at the political heart of the country, their vibrancy, iconoclasm and political impact will continue to inspire future generations. 

Even foreigners like myself, who arrive at the portraits almost incidentally, can recognize them as a shrine in a secular pilgrimage. ■ 

The Obama Portraits by Taína Caragol, Dorothy Moss, Richard J. Powell and Kim Sajet. Princeton University Press in association with the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., 2020.

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